Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
More matter with less art.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?
He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.